


New Year's in Iceland

by ThatWriterKid



Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Edinburgh, Fluff, Iceland, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, Light Polyamory, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22718812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWriterKid/pseuds/ThatWriterKid
Summary: Aziraphale gets a crazy idea about a question he's wanted to ask for a long time. Crowley wants to spend the holiday somewhere warm for once.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Place Without Plot (Domestic Sketches of Aziraphale and Crowley from a Bored Grad Student) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633759
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	New Year's in Iceland

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the places mentioned here are real. They are, in order, Armchair Books in Edinburgh, Half 8 Café in Edinburgh (pairs well with a visit to Lighthouse Books, and if you plan on doing that and want to meet up, tell me! Because that would be a blast and it’s really close to where I live), Blue Lagoon Spa in Grindavik (Iceland), the Barnloft in Reykholt (Iceland), and the Diamond Beach in Iceland. Þ is pronounced “th”, and I kept it here because I’m still salty that English got rid of thorn as a letter.
> 
> Fun side note: everyone in Iceland watches this end-of-year comedy show that is absolutely brilliant, and a version exists with English subs (currently searching for a link). Highly recommend. I'm American and not Icelandic at all and I enjoyed every second of it.

It surprised Crowley, but come Christmas day they felt no particular need to go back to Sussex, at least not immediately. They stayed in Edinburgh for a few days; Aziraphale made friends with a bookshop in Grassmarket and Crowley found a coffee shop in Leith. They spent a few days searching for crepes after a moment of reminiscing in the castle (Crowley reprised his “killing each other with clever machines” line and, to his surprise, Aziraphale answered with an _Oh, lord_ and gave him a once-over with a new subtext present that Crowley couldn’t quite read, and he changed the subject to lunch in a minor panic).

The best crepes in Scotland were, undoubtedly, in a small café near the Meadows, which quickly became a regular spot for lunch on the days they wandered about separately. It was covered in tartan and old records, owned and operated by one man. The drinks were good and the crepes were divine.

“I was thinking, you know,” said Aziraphale, sipping a hot chocolate and relaxing into the tartan, “we don’t _need_ to go back right away.”

“No?” asked Crowley. “Plants will miss me.”

“Oh, the Devices have nowhere to be,” said the angel. “Anathema will keep them alive and I’m sure they don’t mind a little reprieve.”

“You’re scheming,” Crowley lightheartedly accused, fighting to keep the smile off his lips. Aziraphale didn’t laugh _or_ shoot Crowley a disapproving look, which meant he was legitimately nervous about something. The effort of hiding something distracted the angel, which meant Crowley could always _tell_ when it happened. Crowley sat forward a bit: _I’m paying attention. I know this is important. I’m listening._

“It’s just, well. We _know_ Edinburgh. The whole island, really. We’ve lived here a very long time.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes. Well. So. I thought perhaps—if you wanted—we could go somewhere _new_.”

“New?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere’s new, angel. World keeps changing. That’s what we like about it. Remember?”

“I know! But it’s so _easy_ to get around these days. No more horses, no more _ships_ …”

“What’s wrong with ships? I like ships.”

“ _You_ never went on a trireme, if I recall,” said Aziraphale.

“No more triremes, I’ll give you.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale was avoiding talking about whatever he wanted to talk about, now. “Where did you want to go?”

“Iceland.”

“ _Iceland_?”

“Iceland.”

Crowley bit back the _why_ , the _what in the world is in Iceland that makes you want to go there_ , the _what has gotten into you lately, you’re always such a homebody, I literally moved right down the block from you because we both hate putting in more effort to go places than absolutely necessary._ Aziraphale had something in mind, and Crowley had the sense that the wrong reaction would absolutely shatter the man. Besides, Crowley trusted him.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Iceland. What about New Year’s, then?”

Aziraphale insisted on being mysterious about his plans once they _got_ to Iceland, so Crowley demanded the right to do the same.

“If you get a mystery,” he said, “I get a mystery too. And mine’s near the airport, so unless you’ve got a _fantastic_ reason, I get to go first.”

They arrived in Keflavik—not Reykjavik, not on an international flight—and Crowley’s reasoning became apparent quickly. The flight didn’t exactly get in _early_ , but this time of year the sun didn’t rise until noon, so it was the middle of the night when they landed at nine AM. They still didn’t have the Bentley (Newt was _not_ to touch the car back in Sussex, and he was terrified enough of Crowley that Aziraphale suspected he’d form a permanent bond with the houseplants) but Crowley had managed a half-decent rental car. He convinced Aziraphale to get in before breakfast—“Trust me, angel, there’s food where we’re going!”—and they set out into the night. The weather was somewhat warm for the season. It was cold, but not freezing.

Iceland was famous for its stunning scenery and dramatic landscapes, but in darkness like this all they could see were black shapes against gray sky. As the sun rose, it cast long shadows over a broken landscape. The earth had cracked and crackled after centuries of volcanic activity, leaving fields that looked like the ruined cities of ancient giants. Trees here were short and grew in sparse copses—it had once been a forest island, but not after the Nordic settlers arrived—and the tumbling rocks were covered in silver-gray lichens and mosses. Here on the southwest corner, the mountains were mostly distant, framing the horizon.

Crowley peeled off the main road and drove towards an alpine cluster, and the sky grew lighter. He was sure Aziraphale would guess immediately—apparently the angel had been reading about Iceland—but it wasn’t until they drove past the first pools that Crowley saw his eyes light up. He’d picked this place for stupid, indulgent reasons, one of which was that the color of Aziraphale’s eyes matched the water exactly. (He also liked the idea of getting out of the chill for once, warming his serpentine bones, and that played into it.)

Hot springs. Deep-earth saltwater, heated by the volcano and pumped into what was essentially a fancy swimming pool by these brilliant, stupid human beings that they both loved so much. It was indulgent and warm and frankly _good_ for their corporations and souls alike, and after doing things the Human Way for a bit he could use a little pampering.

There was a resort. Crowley had picked the top package, the one that came with free breakfast and facial treatments and daily yoga and guided hikes in addition to everything you could ask for at the hot springs. He’d booked a room for two nights, one with a view of the lagoons. It only came with a single king-sized bed, but honestly, so had every other place they’d stayed. Crowley was the only one who used it. Aziraphale just stayed up reading. Aside from a comment on the décor—“Clearly _you_ chose this place, it looks just like the flat in London with a bit more natural light.”—Aziraphale didn’t mention it at all.

Aziraphale immediately ran off on one of the guided hikes, spouting something about history and geography. Crowley did yoga, taking a moment to try and guess what the angel was getting at with this trip in the first place. He was done first, and was relaxing in their suite with a silica mask when Aziraphale got back (grumpy from the physical activity, but excited about the geological history). Then there was dinner at the restaurant—a great wall of glass built next to the natural volcanic stone, with a table for two right next to illuminated volcanic pools and a plate of Icelandic cod for the angel—and a quick change into suits before they went into the main pool.

Public baths were familiar to them both—they had been around since the moment humans had discovered the delights of warm water—but there was something mystical about hot springs. The vivid water, as opaque and blue as a settled fog. The mist that rose and danced in the air as wind whipped around them, eddying in the rocks and around bridges. The open air, cold and wet with rain against the heat of the water.

The pool was an expanse. The far borders were lost in the mist, and patrons drifted through the water in various masks: mostly white silica, ghostly, with their laughter and conversations muted by the open space. The resort provided towels and bathrobes, so the bridges around the pools were inhabited by patrons in white as well, exploring the intricate landscape of the baths.

Crowley and Aziraphale hung their robes on hooks outside and darted to the water, laughing. They had both slicked back their hair with conditioner—the salt and silica stuck and dried it out—and Aziraphale looked ridiculous, his characteristic curls stuck flat to his head. Someone took someone’s hand and they ended up drifting like the dead in the water, looking up at the darkness and locked together, holding tightly, refusing to ever let go.

Crowley washed his hair in the private shower of their suite. The conditioner had done little to protect it, despite the spa’s claims that it had been specially designed for the water here. He _could_ just miracle back the keratin, but some deep-down part of him liked the feeling of Aziraphale seeing him as imperfect. He slathered it in a keratin treatment instead, slicking it back against his head, before drying off and wrapping up in a robe. He’d get some rest and in the morning—

The demon’s wandering train of thought was jolted off its track as he came into the bedroom. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed. The angel was wearing _pyjamas_ , silk beige ones with a gold trim, which was a sight Crowley had not ever thought he’d see. His hair was frizzy with silica and salt. He looked nervous. He jumped when Crowley closed the bathroom door.

“Ah. Hello.”

“Hello,” said Crowley, waving his hand in Aziraphale’s general direction. _You’re in my bed_ , the gesture said. _This is a new turn of events, please tell me what is happening._

“Yes. Well. I thought perhaps—so much has happened, lately. So much has changed. I’m… I’m tired, I think.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m quite tired. And I’ve never been much good at…” _At trusting anyone_ , the pause said. _At relaxing enough to let my guard down. Relaxing invites attack. Relaxing means I cannot avoid conflict once I see it coming._ “…At sleeping. I thought perhaps I’d try it.”

“Am I on the couch, then?” asked Crowley, perhaps a bit more snidely than he meant it. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to seeing the angel in pyjamas. He just assumed, at this point, that it was part of the Agreement that he was entitled to any bed in a room they shared, and he’d been looking forward to this one.

He’d give up any bed in the world for Aziraphale, but that was beside the point.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley, surprised.

It was utterly impossible to sleep. The bed was warm and soft, and the rain pattered outside in a gentle white noise. Crowley rolled over, restless, assuming he’d see Aziraphale as a knot of blankets with a little angelic cloud of hair sticking out. Not the case: Aziraphale had turned to look at him, too.

Their eyes met. Gold to blue. Crowley breathed.

“You’re not very good at this,” said Aziraphale. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Clearly.”

“You’ve messed with my usual routine,” said Crowley. “I don’t usually have distracting angels in my bed.”

“Distracting?” Aziraphale’s voice was prim. “So sinful.”

Crowley hit him with a pillow.

The second night was clearer, and the private lagoon that came with their suite produced less steam. Crowley, who was beginning to doubt that he would ever sleep again, floated in the water and watched the stars for a while. There was some small light pollution from the spa and a nearby geothermal plant, but for the most part the sky was clear, and he could see the galaxy.

Aziraphale joined him. Crowley hadn’t bothered with a suit—no one could see them here and he still felt a little weird dressing up to get in a bath. Neither had the angel. He laid back in the water and joined Crowley without a word.

Crowley pointed. “Helped build that one,” he said.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. He pointed at a nearby cluster. “And those. And most of the structures around Ursa Major, didn’t you?”

“You kept track?”

“It’s not hard,” said Aziraphale. “You tell me every time we go stargazing. We’ve done quite a lot of stargazing.”

Crowley laughed. “Humans say, when they get old, their friends know all their stories.”

“And their partners,” said Aziraphale, and then he seemed like he was going to say something else, but he hesitated.

Crowley elbowed him. “ _Why_ are you so nervous?”

“It’s my turn tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll find out then.”

It was New Year’s Eve. They didn’t leave early, not until the sun was up. They needed to arrive after dark, Aziraphale insisted, and the drive wasn’t _too_ long.

Bullshit, in Crowley’s opinion. _Not too long_ was about seven hours from the resort, at the speed limit and with no stops. They drove north, touched the edge of Reykjavik, then swung east on Route 1 and took the Ring Road into eternity. And Aziraphale kept stopping for nibbles and photo opportunities. They took a detour north because he simply had to see Þingvallir National Park, and then he kept taking pictures out of the car window rather than just waiting for the lookout points, and then there was this lovely little farm-to-table place in Reykholt where they _had_ to stop for a late lunch. It had a stunning mountain view, although it also had views into the actual barn and Crowley felt a bit odd eating a hamburger next to its still-living friends.

“Is this the thing?” Crowley asked, every time they stopped. Þingvallir _was_ spectacular, great sweeping hills absolutely spattered with snowcapped mountains and boiling, broken earth. The barn food _was_ good. The landscape was beautiful. But each time, Aziraphale shook his head. He was stalling, the bastard. Wherever he wanted to be, Crowley suspected he wanted to be there at midnight.

It was eleven-thirty when Aziraphale told him to pull over into a nondescript parking lot. They were a third of the way around the Ring Road. They weren’t even _close_ to a town. (Hof didn’t count, it had a total of six intersections and five roads.) It was as godforsaken as Crowley was, and that was _saying_ something.

“Just pull in,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was grumpy and tired. “I promise you, it’s worth it.”

Crowley obeyed. Wherever they were, Aziraphale had dragged them to the ends of the earth for it. Demons trusted no one, but Crowley trusted his angel. Always.

They parked and Crowley stepped out onto black sand. It was gritty and volcanic and nothing special, exactly: it covered the entire island like a blanket. It even pooled up at the bottom of the hot springs. They hadn’t traveled all this way to see sand.

Crowley turned around.

It was a minor miracle, he was sure, that the sky was still so clear and the beach was so empty. They were the only sentient creatures present for miles, and the stars spilled above them in a shining display that was _almost_ as clear as the day Crowley had made them. They looked like diamonds, spilled across a sky of black velvet. And in front of him, in this _perfect_ place, the beach—

“Behind us—they call it Glacier Bay. It’s full of icebergs that break off from the glaciers, and they all exit the bay through that small opening there. They break up and smooth down in the ocean, then get caught in the tide and pulled back here.”

“Angel…”

“They call it Diamond Beach because the ice is so clear and smooth, and the broken ice looks like diamonds on the black sand. One of the employees at the bookshop in Edinburgh went here, they showed me pictures. They do look like diamonds, of course, but I saw the pictures and I thought it looked more like—”

“Stars,” Crowley breathed.

Some of the shards were the size of Crowley’s hand; some were the size of Crowley. They were scattered along the sand like glass on ink, like stars on the sky, like diamonds on velvet, and it was freezing but it was _beautiful_ , and this time Crowley knew _exactly_ whose hand reached for whose. He’d taken Aziraphale’s and grasped it tight.

“I thought we could go for a walk here,” said Aziraphale.

“You brought us to Iceland for a walk?” He’d already started, tugging the angel along behind him. Down the slope to the beach, careful not to slip. Aziraphale cleared his throat and caught up.

“One could put it that way.” The angel extracted his hand from the demon’s in favor of tucking into Crowley’s arm instead. He was clearly trying to be romantic, to cuddle a little, but he was too nervous and his back had gone stiff. Crowley kissed the top of the angel’s head.

“I saw it and it reminded me of you,” said Aziraphale, clearly trying to segue into something. “You helped make the stars. It’s silly, thinking you’re older than me. I wasn’t around yet, not for that part.”

“Didn’t think I was older than you.”

“Not by _much._ ”

“ _Not by much_ ,” Crowley mimicked in a posh accent. He was teasing. Time as a concept didn’t really apply to angels.

“Hush, you. It made me think, well. You talk about them so much, and I think it was a happy time for you. I hope it was a happy time for you.” Complicated topic. But Aziraphale was building up to something, and Crowley wasn’t going to stop him. “And because, well, because it seems like a memory of a safe place, something important to you—a beginning, really. Not _our_ beginning, not The Beginning—oh dear, maybe I should have done this in a garden—”

“Angel.” Crowley laughed. The sand sunk under their footsteps and the ocean—pure Atlantic, powerful and deep—beat steadily in the background. “Keep going.”

“It just seemed like a good place to ask you a question, that’s all. I didn’t have a diamond. This isn’t very well thought-through.”

Crowley paused. There was a feeling like warmth spreading through his chest.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to let go of Crowley’s arm and turn to face him. They stood there, eyes locked, twin points of light and darkness in a line parallel to the ocean. The angel breathed deeply, and the demon forgot to breathe at all.

“I need you to know what it is that I am asking,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t… There’s so much of this, of our relationship, that I never want to change. I enjoy our independence. I will never stop you from running off to see Bond Films at the cinema or saying unforgiveable things to your plants. I know that over the years we have both developed—ah— _close_ relationships with humans on occasion, and I do not expect that to stop for _either_ of us. I think those relationships, whatever they might be, are important to us.”

“ _Aziraphale…_ ”

“I think our freedom, however we use it, is important to our dynamic. I don’t want _anything_ to change between us, except perhaps for each of us to… to know. Crowley— _Anthony_ —earlier this year I said something truly horrible to you, and I need you to know it wasn’t true. It has never been true, not really. I’ve been lying to myself. I think I’ve been lying to myself for quite a long time.”

The angel took the demon’s hand.

“I am on our side. Anthony Crowley—”

“Anthony _J._ Crowley—” It was a reflex.

“Anthony _J_. Crowley, I have chosen you for six thousand years. I have done so bucking and—and fighting, on occasion. But I have done so. And I know that you’ve done the same to me. In fact—in fact, I think I’ve lied to myself more than you’ve ever lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” said Crowley, holding that hand like it was the end of the world.

“What I’m asking you,” said Aziraphale, “is simply to… make it official, as it were. Say to each other, directly, that we are on _our side_ and no one else’s. That we will choose each other over all future sides. All future… er, choices. All future loves.”

He removed his signet ring.

“When I say _marriage_ —”

Crowley finally broke down. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing at Aziraphale’s monologue—was this a proposal or a contract?—or crying at the sudden rush of emotion, but he closed one hand around the ring and the other around Aziraphale’s waist and _kissed_ him. Kissed him under the stars and among the diamonds, hours away from civilization, at the stroke of midnight.

“ _Yes_.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you _idiot_ , always yes.” Crowley’s hands cupped his angel’s face, drinking in the love that _poured_ from Aziraphale like a fountain. “You’re right. I’ve always picked you above everything. Everyone. Always. Easy to be ourselves and still do that. It’s natural.”

Natural didn’t always mean easy—especially to Aziraphale, who could be loyal to a fault to all the wrong people. But they were free to be themselves. Free to live however they wanted. Free to choose each other. Crowley put the signet ring on his finger, already mentally sketching out a serpentine ring to match it.

This time it was Aziraphale who kissed him.


End file.
